Connections
by svuxfanfic
Summary: My take on what might have happened after Olivia Benson & Dominic Pruitt's exchange at the end of "PTSD." [Benson/Pruitt pairing]


**A/N: If you follow me on twitter, you know this thing has been a long time coming. So sorry for the wait. This is basically my take on what (coulda-shoulda-woulda) happened after Benson & Pruitt's final scene in "PTSD." This does involve them as a pairing, and may even turn into a two-shot (or more?), but the main focus of this story is on Olivia and her inner battles. That being said, Disclaimer: could be some triggers of sexual assault as it does deal with flashbacks to Sealview. Please feel free to leave a review and let me know your thoughts!**

"I was sexually assaulted six months ago."

There. You said it.

Your palms are sweating, heart beating erratically. But you said it.

You finally verbalized those putrid words, sent them soaring through the openness of the squad room air and into the possession of a stranger. Well, no, that wasn't exactly accurate. He wasn't a complete stranger (Only the guy you just tried to throw in prison for the rest of his days.) And while you can't believe what's coming out of your mouth, or the sheer absurdity of it all, you also can't deny the weight that seems to lift away as the confession brushes off your lips. Not so much that the pressure disappears altogether, but you definitely feel it lighten as you finally allow someone to share with you the burden of _knowing. _

You look up at him. _Are those tears in his eyes? _No. Certainly not. But you can't ignore the unmistakable glimmer as he takes a cautious step toward you, and you reflexively step back in response. An unconscious movement. For a moment, his warming gaze dances over your face, seeking out some sort of connection, but your eyes are deliberately averted, looking anywhere but into his.

"Quit kicking yourself," he whispers quietly enough that the bustling traffic of people around you remain deaf to the conversation.

Your eyes fall shut in exasperation at his suggestion. As if the perpetual self-blame was a conscious decision of your own.

"That's easy to say and hard to do."

"It takes practice. You'll get there."

At long last, your eyes meet, and a jolt of electricity releases beneath your skin, igniting your nerve endings. The thickness between you suddenly catches the air in your throat. There's something heavy in his eyes, in yours. A conflict. A connection. For a split second, you think he's going to say something more, but he seems to close off the thought with a resigned blink of his eyes, clearing away the moisture.

"I've got to catch my train," his words break through your mutual trance, sending your heart plummeting back down to earth—a familiar disappointment—still reeling from the intensity of the unexpected moment. You silently scold yourself for whatever strange, unprovoked emotion you had allowed to over-run you momentarily.

"Yeah," you trail off, annoyance perking up inside you at the undeniable hint of sadness in your voice. You hope he doesn't notice.

It takes a second too long to tear your glances away from each other, but he's the one who finally initiates the grand exit, turning abruptly on his heel toward the sliding elevator doors. You can't be sure what it is about this unfamiliar man—whether it's his selfless persona, or his compassionate eyes that seemed to be the only match on earth for the depth of your own—but one way or another, his stepping into the elevator feels something like a loss.

You take a deep breath and exhale as you watch the silver doors slide shut, pretending not to notice the pang of overwhelming loneliness as the handsome man disappears from your sight, taking one of your darkest secrets with him. When you snap out of your revere, you, too, turn away, resigned from the long day and ready to grab your purse and just go home. But as you approach the corner of the squad room wall, a prominent _ding _calls you to stop in your tracks.

"Detective Benson!"

Your heart does a jump as you feel yourself spin around to face the familiar voice. When you spot him, he's wearing an expression akin to anxiousness. You suspect it mirrors your own. But you pull yourself together enough to muster a sly smile.

"I thought I told you to call me Olivia."

This earns you a smile. His face relaxes as you feel your muscles do the same, and suddenly the tension is whisked away and replaced by something a little like giddiness.

He takes a few steps closer and you don't back away this time.

"I don't usually do this…" he started, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic twinge of nervousness, "I just. I'd like to see you again."

You're stunned.

His eyes lock in yours for a moment, and you can feel yourself trapped in his gaze, but it feels nothing like imprisonment. A small bubble of courage rises in your throat.

"How about right now?"

And you almost fall over dead when he obliges with a smirk and then somehow, your purse is in your hand and you are on the elevator beside him, and you're off.

Coffee. Drinks. Witty smirks. Smoldering eyes. Loaded questions. Elusive answers. A spark.

And then you blink, and you're home. And he's with you. Well, that's an understatement. More accurately, he's clinging to you like saran wrap, the effects of the alcohol stirring wildly among both of you. But more importantly, _you're _on _him. _ And the two of you are on _each_ _other_. And it feels right and it feels good and it feels _consensual_. Arms around his neck, his back against the door. Careful hands give way to desperate ones, and suddenly you're pawing at each other like you are the last unbroken branches before hitting the ground. Your touch grows more and more urgent as you grapple to keep hold of this exhilarating control you are suddenly feeling, the freedom.

But his hands reciprocate your own, twisting and knotting themselves into your caramel locks and wow you haven't kissed like this in a while, not since... No. Oh, no no no. You feel it rising: the dread, the fear, the revulsion. Are you in your living room corridor or are you huddled against a dusty concrete basement floor? You can't tell. Is he passionately kissing you or are his hands only in your hair to pull your he—

_NO._

Fight it fight it fight it. You're screaming at yourself inside this tiny room in your head that happens to look conspicuously similar to a basement, and you consciously hope to God that he can't hear you. You try to keep up outward appearances, keep the movement going, just push through it, just breathe. This is not _him_. You are not _there_. You want this. God, do you want this. If not for the man whom you share a sudden, undeniable connection with, then you want this for _yourself. _For all the sleepless nights and failed attempts and stolen dreams. He doesn't get to steal another ounce.

But your attempts at hiding must be weak. He picks up on your discomfort.

"You okay?" it's a breathy whisper against your ear.

You nod. But he's hesitant, careful. Courteous.

"Are you sure?"

And WOW you are so tired of hearing that question, so you push him back into the door, a glint of ferocity in your eye, and you decide to prove it to him. To yourself.

Then suddenly you're at it again, and his hands are warm and gentle and inviting. Every single touch is like a naïve rediscovery, and you revel in the glory of how amazing another human body can feel without the sting of cold steel around your wrists. And by some inconceivable miracle, the sensation of his lips against yours suddenly doesn't paint the ambiance of dirty concrete and old mattresses _and oh my_ _God_ you could literally just _cry_. You think you might. But instead, you kiss him back.

Because you want to.

For the first time in—_God_—too long, you don't think about handcuffs or prison basements or chain link fences or bar-covered doors. In the heat of the moment, your mind doesn't allow you to wonder to brooding, possessive partners—"_What happened in the basement?"—_and failed "relationships"—"_Move in with me?_"

Because now? You're doing something you've rarely done in all your years: you're taking care ofyourself. _Thinking _of yourself_. _And this is in YOUR timing, YOUR conditions; no prey and predator dynamic, no incessant pressure from a pushy, unsympathetic boyfriend. This time, the choice is all yours, and it's such a beautiful feeling.

As a sudden rush of emotion floods over you, your eyes prick with just the slightest bit of moisture, and you can't help your lips that curve into a smile. You feel the sudden need to burst into hysteric laughter because there's this rush of overflowing joy that you can do this again. You can feel these natural human desires and not be flogged by shame and fear and sickness. Finally, you can't contain it anymore and a big, stupid grin spreads out across your face as you stop your motions to lean your forehead against his warm chest. You're giggling, and you feel ridiculous for doing so, especially at such a time as this, but you really can't bring yourself to care.

Your soft burst of laughter must sound a bit like crying, because suddenly he is stiff beneath your touch. Frozen, unsure. And you know he's worried about you, and you know "the question" is sure to come again at any moment. Even more so, you know that this doesn't mean you're "all better." You know that recovery is a long and winding road, and that you will have plenty more nightmares, plenty more flashbacks, plenty more failed attempts. But right here, right now, in this moment, you just can't wipe the smile off your face.

"Olivia, are you—"

You reach up to press your fingers against his lips before he can finish his words, tears of joy still present in your eyes as your gaze meets his in this kindred moment. Your heart threatens to burst.

"I couldn't be better."


End file.
